One evening, I found my mother standing in the doorway with her hand resting on the frame.
For years, I had seen her stand there as though guarding an absence.
This time, Levi was asleep inside, one arm thrown over his face, Jesse’s old quilt pulled up to his chest.
My mother looked at him, then at me.
“I used to think keeping this door closed would preserve him,” she said quietly. “Like if nothing changed in here, the world would have to give him back exactly as he was.”
I slipped my arm through hers.
“And now?”
She smiled through tears.
“Now I think some doors stay closed because no one is ready to open them. But that doesn’t mean they have to stay closed forever.”
Downstairs, Jesse laughed at something my father said.
